


Of Scraps and Stories

by Nikkie2010



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Backstory, Different take on things, Going to stop trying to tag, It's not my day for tagging, Old pieces of work on PC, Slice of Life, Snippets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:42:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkie2010/pseuds/Nikkie2010
Summary: So rummaging through my writing folder I often come across ideas and half-written stories. As with most writers - some muses grabbed me and wouldn't let go, demanding their voices be heard - others sprung up just to slide down and back into the inky pool of half-cocked plots.Others, still yet, managed to get a bit of their voices heard, before calling it a day and returning to the pool. This is the place for those. Perhaps some of them will re-emerge, perhaps not, but as they went through all the trouble to be written down in black on white, I'll do the honours of posting.Updates will be periodic. The relationships mentioned are the ones I ship, and eventual chapters will feature them.Lastly, I'm gifting this to my wonderful beta Siriuslyfiesty - she has been the one to motivate, threaten, encourage and assist me with most all my stories. Her friendship has been invaluable to me.





	1. The Profiler

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siriuslyfeisty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyfeisty/gifts).



 

The smooth table was cold beneath Smokescreen’s arms as he cradled a warm jug of midgrade energon. The lights were bright enough to illuminate every shadow, but not so bright it would sting the optics. The faded booth beneath him had probably once been a bright red, but usage had worn it down to a paler, ugly shade. Not to mention the padding needed replacing. He shifted so he could see more of the room. To his right and within his peripheral, Bluestreak was playing with the loud, red cassette-carrier’s symbionts. He was safe. That was all that mattered. He flared his wings, the sensors delicately inlaid in every spindly feather tickled as he got a reading on two mechs enjoying energon at a booth on the far end of what he made out to be an exclusive recreation room. No doubt the officer’s lounge. The mechs were lounging, but alert. Thick armour. Sturdy. Scouts. One black the other green. He tagged them as threat-level-low.

At his back, his doorwings picked up a phantom flare. His sensors tickled once more, trying to get a read on the rippling atmosphere. He allowed them time. The anomaly wasn’t moving. He sipped his energon, smile soft and optics open as he glanced at his three companions at the table with him. He swayed his doorwings, tilting them to focus on the phantom.

His companions were no doubt all of them in special units – most likely Autobot special agents. The one who had escorted him and Bluestreak from Praxus settled comfortably on his left, his powerful blue frame long and graceful. Devcon had been very courteous throughout the entire affair, but Smokescreen held no illusions that this mech was trained, armed and dangerous. His confidence was mixed with caution. No doubt he was used to the field. He had too much nervous energy sitting still next to his companion. Smokescreen had already tagged him as threat-level-medium, a note on all the vulnerable areas accompanied the observation.

He glanced at the babbling red cassette-carrier. Blaster. This mech he knew at least from reports he had received. He was a savant – his only rival in the field of electrofields and waves was Soundwave. Known to be able to intercept radio waves at over four-thousand kels away, the mech had been sought after by both factions. Smokescreen was thankful the mech had a spark and joined the Autobots. He was also thankful that the mech’s symbionts were currently chasing a giggling Bluestreak around the room. He was the only one he wouldn’t tag as an agent – unless he was a very rookie agent. Seated between the other two, he was unknowingly guarded. He was too open with his hands, his expression was unprotected – no. This mech was who he said he was. A communications officer. Smokescreen laughed appropriately at a joke the mech told, toning his voice to sound open and intrigued. His keen optics though, continued analysing. This mech was honest, friendly and showed genuine care for others. Threat-level-minimal. He was only here because his symbionts were looking after Bluestreak.

He turned his attention lastly to the Polyhexian lounging across him. _Jazz_. The mech laughed warmly, face open and friendly, but his frame….the mech had a predatory grace around him that shrouded him in a blanket of mystery and deadliness. The taloned hand tapped an unheard beat on the table, the audial fins – as rich in sensors as his doorwings – flicked at every sound. One was permanently trained on him. Smokescreen smiled broadly as the mech caught him staring. He was no fool. This mech was a killer, his calculating optics hidden behind a pristine blue visor that no doubt had the latest modifications. Threat-level-maximum.

If it came to it, this mech would have to die first.

As he sat and listened to the sounds floating through the recroom – the idle chitchat from Blaster, the joking interruptions from Jazz, the ‘hurrumphs’ from Devcon – he catalogued it all, summing them up, profiling them.

No doubt they had run the background checks and had come up with nothing save that he was Bluestreak’s guardian – and thus, as they had no reason to be suspicious, they had kindly invited him to the Autobot seat of power. It was a dangerous move – one that Prowl would immediately have shot down.

But these mechs weren’t Prowl.

He glanced again at the silver mech.

Jazz returned an easy smile, one hand resting easily on the table the other on his leg. The talons flexed just a little.

He smiled back. Even though it was a stupid move to bring an unknown mech with an unknown file to Iacon and within reach of the Prime, these mechs had at least had the common sense to surround him with agents able and willing to kill. The question was – was he outmatched, or were they?

The phantom moved and Smokescreen shifted. It was time to end this little farce.

“Gentlemechs,” the word softly spoken as morning dew upon delicate crystals had an immediate effect. Blaster quieted, cocking his helm at him while the other two looked on expectantly. “I appreciate that you are trying to make me feel more at ease, and that you are providing Bluestreak with a safe place in which to run around, but maybe we should just talk about why I am here?”

His voice was smooth as the flowing rivers of quicksilver that meandered through the lowlands. The voice was modulated like he had been trained to. It was a voice that put many mechs at ease, made them divulge all their secrets, made them loosen their guard. It was a fantastic skill to hone.

The mechs relaxed – all expect the silver one. Smokescreen’s processor continued to chip away at the mystery.

“Well, Smokescreen, you are mainly here because of your brother.” Devcon sat forward, leaning more towards Smokescreen but keeping enough distance between them so that he could manoeuvre his larger frame – and that he was within easy reach of a vulnerable doorwing.

Smokescreen flicked his doorwing back and out of reach. He dared not fold them to his back – he would lose track of the phantom. He spread his hands innocently. There were no deadly talons in sight – they were all neatly sheathed. His hands were gently now, there movements graceful. “Yes, I know I am here because of my brother. But why?”

Jazz leaned forward, his face soft but visor glinting. Smokescreen knew the look – it was the look of a predator that had locked onto his prey.

He reassessed his initial analysis on Jazz. Perhaps he knew more than he was letting on? This mech was dangerous. But the question was exactly how much did he know, and did that place any of them in danger? He glanced at Bluestreak. Those symbionts could be deadly. He clamped down, forcing his concern for his ward to fade.

“You tell us why, Smokey.” Jazz cocked his helm to the side, easy smile in place – a smile meant to disarm just as much as his own smile was meant to.

Were the Autobots a threat? No. Were they incompetent? Yes. Did they really deserve a mech of Prowl’s skill? Of his skills? Maybe. But they had had no say in the matter.

A shrill scream ripped through the air and Smokescreen half-sprang up, doorwings flaring to their full height as he searched for Bluestreak. The shrill scream sounded again as Bluestreak darted between tables, a little lion chasing him. Smokescreen settled, his inwards rattled. It was only a game. And if he hadn’t done so before, they certainly knew now that Bluestreak was his weakness.

But they were Autobots. And they wouldn’t use the same tactics as Passad.

He kept his optics focused on Bluestreak. Bluestreak deserved to be near Prowl, and because of that, and only because of that, he had come with the Autobot Devcon to Iacon. Family first.

He turned back to Jazz.

The mech had his chin resting and his hand, gazing at Smokescreen. “Pretty quick reflexes there, mech.”

Smokescreen laughed as he shrugged off the comment. His processor was screaming that it was ambiguous. This silver mech – he was dangerous. He was smart. Smokescreen should not underestimate him. “One learns to have sharp skills with sparklings around.” He rubbed a hand over his face. That was a fact of nature.

“Yeah my mech, I agree with you on that one.” Blaster lifted his mug in a companionable toast and took a sip. “If I thought my mechlings were in harm, I’d screw Megs and fight Unicron to get to them.”

Smokescreen did laugh at that – honestly and innocently. “Yes, I would too.” _Family first._ His laughter died off. “But of course a creator’s bond, as you saw yesterorn, is much stronger than that of a guardian.” He cradled the warm mug in his hands, staring down at the swirling, glittering liquid steaming inside. “And that brings us back to why I am here. I can only hypothesize why I am here, but I admit I have more questions than hypothesises.”

He took a sip of the warm energon and felt it slip down his intakes, warming his tanks from inside. He had to play his cards right – play ignorant until you know their hand. He glanced at Blaster. He was the easiest to read, and they already had a common connection. “The ‘why am I here’ is rather easy to ask, not that I am unthankful. I truly am thankful that both Blue and I are here, but usually when mechs are injured in battle, you do not send an…” he glanced at Devcon, “a soldier to fetch relatives. Usually we just get a note in the post when someone has died, that says something like ‘we regret to inform you…’, but not a visitor to collect you to come to your brother’s side while he is still alive and sedated in the hospital.”

He looked at Blaster rather than the other two. The mech frowned, and briefly glimpsed at Jazz.

Smokescreen hunched in on himself, his doorwings keeping watch on the unmoving phantom. That glance definitely cemented Jazz as the leader of this motley crew. He turned his concerned attention back to Jazz. It was not surprising, really. The mech oozed authority and confidence. It was part of that dangerous edge to his field.

“You ask good questions.” Jazz noted as the smile tightened.

Smokescreen took another sip, unease creeping into his tanks. For some reason it felt like this mech was looking straight through him – dissecting him like Prowl always did, examining every piece of him. He’d have to be careful. He had to hold his cards close. Family first. “I am a psychologist, I treat bereaved patients more often than I would like to.”

That was the truth, and it was also a reason why he didn’t want to watch as Blue went through that process, although the bonds breaking would do more damage than a lost memory at this age.

But he couldn’t think like that – Prowl would live. He was like those pesky scraplets – no matter the environment or the odds, they always managed to survive.

“So that brings me back to my initial question, why am I here?” Smokescreen placed his energon on the table and leaned closer to Devcon. In part it was so that the mech would first have to move back before he’d be able to reach with his arm, but another, perhaps more alarming aspect was that Smokescreen liked the warmth of his frame and smell of his polish. He must be more exhausted than he thought.

Devcon stayed still and Smokescreen relaxed slightly. Jazz kept his penetrating gaze on him.

Finally, Jazz nodded and withdrew a datapad from his subspace. “This here, is Prowl’s file. Everything we have on him.” He placed it on the table and slid it over the table towards Smokescreen.

Smokescreen’s optics lit up as he saw the datapad. No doubt it would be edited. _No doubt_. But the Autobots didn’t have to know that. They only needed to know what the Praxian XOps – Passad – wanted them to know.

He picked up the datapad and switched it on. He read through the contents, then read through it again. He gripped it until a small hairline crack split the surface. He drew a deep vent to calm the anger that threatened to boil over. _Frag those bastards!_

He held the datapad up, staring straight at Jazz. He didn’t care if his voice didn’t sound melodic and soothing. This was plain slag! “What’s this?! There isn’t even a _mention_ of Bluestreak in this file!” He slammed it down on the table and the room went silent.

A small, uncertain chirp sounded as Bluestreak pattered towards Smokescreen, his doorwings flared in curiosity and concern. Smokescreen smiled and crooned his engine. “I’m sorry, Blue. I put the datapad down too hard, but everything is ok. You can go play.”

Bluestreak watched him a little longer with his sparkling wide optics. The little symbiont nudged him, then hopped away. And just like that Bluestreak laughed and chased after him, forgetting the adults.

Smokescreen let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I apologise. I am simply… _concerned_ that there is _vital_ information missing from his file. If Prowl had been killed in that skirmish, how would we have known?” Smokescreen pressed his hands to his temple. _How dare the Passad do this to them!_ After all they had done to the agency the least they could do was ensure Prowl had ties to Bluestreak. It was after all their botched mission that had resulted in Prowl carrying Bluestreak.

And then for them to hide the –

His optics snapped open and he glared at Jazz. “If no information was on his file about family…” _Or any of his other talents_ , “How did you know to find us?” He turned to Devcon.

The mech arched an optic ridge at Jazz, who nodded.

“We have a security director who is very thorough. He was suspicious of the circumstances surrounding the skirmish.”

“Suspicious?” Smokescreen’s processor raced. Why would they be suspicious? Yes, Prowl was loyal to Praxus, but he had switched loyalty to the Autobots as per orders. He was assigned the Autobots and he’d be loyal to that code until Death ripped him away from it. Did they perhaps think he wouldn’t? Or did they think that Prowl had intentionally altered his data? Prowl would never do that, and he would especially never leave information on Bluestreak out. He had been given to the Autobots as a ‘gift’ from the Praxian enforcers, but his file had none of his skills or allegiances listed. In fact, according to his file, he was simply good cannon fodder. He hadn’t even been sent to Iacon but to some remote Primus-forsaken-outpost on the border of who knows where. It was a waste of his talents, of his skills, of the resources pushed into the project that was Passad. “I don’t understand.” He whispered and dragged a hand over his helm and over his neck. Why waste his talents?

Jazz must have taken it that he didn’t understand Devcon’s explanation. “He was curious as to why Prowl was left alive. You see, Iacon has the best SD on Cybertron, and anyone, I mean anyone who comes on base – including you and Blue – are checked. We’ve found some anomalies that we really don’t know how to place and we need you to answer those questions for us.”

An icy fist clutched his tank and hot, livid rage lanced through his lines. Smokescreen gripped his mug, willing the monster back to his cage. The age-old desire to eliminate the threats burned into his processor, but steadily he squashed the need. _Family-first-Family-first-Family-first…_ His optics flitted to Bluestreak… _family first, family first…_ to the two symbionts playing with him… _family first…._ to the two mechs seated at the back… _family…_ the three surrounding him… _first_ … the phantom at the back….

He drew a deep vent, falling back to his training. _Five in….seven out…._ “So I am under interrogation and suspicion?” He turned back to Jazz, but surprisingly the mech’s demeanour had softened, almost as if it had momentarily sensed Smokescreen’s distress. It was…unexpected…and unnerving.

“Smokescreen, we are Autobots. My prime likes me to give bots the benefit of the doubt, and I don’t like jumping the blaster. We’re here talking as friends, I’m not an MP.”

Smokescreen glanced around the room again. Ok, time for this charade to stop completely. He was going to lay all his cards on the table. Autobots….were allies. “Right. But you are an agent. All of you are agents. Including the cloaked mech standing at the door. Why do you have so many agents on standby? Not to mention that we have been half a joor in the officer’s lounge and no other mech has joined us. It is my turn to ask what game are _you_ playing?”

Jazz stared at him for a beat and then threw himself back – laughing hard.

Smokescreen gaped at him. The silvery aft’s entire neck was exposed! Was the mech daft? Maybe he wasn’t an agent at all? No agent would so openly expose his neck to be slashed by some mech who sat across from him who’s skills were unknown.

The silver mech sat forward, a genuine toothy grin spread across his face. “You,” he pointed a finger at Smokescreen, “are not a mere psychologist. But you’re damn good. Previous training?”

Smokescreen stared at him, mouth half-open as he panned his helm slowly from side to side. “Is he alright?” he leaned towards Devcon.

“Yeah, he is. This is actually quite normal.” Devcon shrugged and put some more space between him and Smokescreen.

Smokescreen glanced at him, but didn’t comment on the extra space. He turned back to Jazz. “I am a trained psychologist.”

“And what else? Come on mech. Special forces?” He tapped his helm. “Pulled your public file, and sure it says you are a psychologist…and a psychiatrist. But there ain’t much else – just your school and university. Not even so much as your creators are listed. Same with Prowl’s file.”

He clasped his hands on the table, nodding at Smokescreen. “You’ve already showed some keen observations that normal mecha don’t make, which shows me you’ve got some training. Last I recall they don’t teach this slag at university. But,” he waved a hand dismissively, “let’s leave that now. Fact is that I’ve been reviewing your file and Prowl’s file, and even though it appears tight, my tank some there’s something I’m missing. That’s what I’m interested in. The missing info. And from my observation of the two of you – and Blue’s little ventilator stunt yesterorn, I’m beginning to suspect things I really don’t like. Hence my agents.”

Smokescreen sat back, doorwings resting against the back of the booth. He turned his attention to Bluestreak again. The little mech was scratching the symbiont’s midsection. By the looks of it both were enjoying it. He drew a deep vent. For Bluestreak. He’d do anything for Prowl and Bluestreak. Family first. They were the only ones who didn’t abandon you.

“Very well. The Autobots are allies. But, information comes at a cost.” Smokescreen smirked as he saw Jazz’s visor flash and the silvery mech leaned forward.

“You’re not really in a po–” Blaster trailed off as Jazz raised his hand.

“Nah, mech. It’s cool. It’s fair.  But you begin. I’ve already given away a ton.” Jazz sat back and folded his arms over his chassis.

Smokescreen reviewed the information Jazz had given and nodded. “I guess it is fair…the data on Prowl’s file is obviously wrong. Everything. There’s hardly a single thing on it save his designation that hasn’t been fabricated. And I can swear on my spark that he didn’t change it.”

“How can you do that?” Jazz asked.

“Isn’t it your turn?” Smokescreen mimicked Jazz’s pose.

“Nope. You haven’t given me new info. I told you the datapads were wrong, that’s why you’re here.” He kicked Smokescreen’s pede under the table. “So go on, who is Prowl?”

Smokescreen drew a vent and held it. _Who is Prowl?_ Frag how does one answer the anomaly that is Prowl? “Prowl is….Prowl.” He shrugged, expression helpless.

“Informative.” Jazz deadpanned, his expression that of boredom.

“Well it’s really difficult to explain who he is unless you know him. He is unique. Skilled. Deadly. Emphatic. Caring. Smart. Meticulous. He’s a …fine-tuned weapon. Pfft. I don’t know. He’s my brother.”

Jazz’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Weapon?” He echoed as his visor darkened a shade. “I’m interested in that part.”

Smokescreen leaned forward. “No. It’s my turn to ask a question.” He tapped his hand against his chest.

Jazz shrugged. “Make it quick.”

“You sent my brother to an outpost where Primus only knows where it is for nearly two vorns and now you start to question his loyalty and his identity. Why?” He took hold of the now cool energon, needing to hold something more than wanting warmth for his hands.

“You ain’t an Autobot, Smokescreen, there are certain answers I can’t give you.” Jazz pointed out, and if Smokescreen analysed his vocals he held true regret. But regret didn’t appease him.

He glanced at Bluestreak. The mechling deserved to have his creator with him. But he knew how this life worked. You didn’t give information out to mechs you didn’t know, mechs you didn’t trust, and mechs that might gain leverage over you. But still, he needed answers. “Ok, next question then. What happens to him when he wakes?”

Jazz rubbed his chin, staring at a point above Smokescreen’s shoulder. He brought his gaze back to rest on Smokescreen. “That depends on what you tell me and on what he tells us.”

“Not really an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

Smokescreen gripped his cube and fought down the beast clawing at its cage. _Just breath. In and out. No need to get upset._ “This conversation is not a fair exchange.”

“Smokescreen,” suddenly warm hand gripped his own. He startled and tried to pull away, but the delicate hands were deceptively strong.  

 He glanced up at Jazz, unable to stop the warning in his optics.

Jazz held him tighter, warning glinting in his own visor. “We are allies, not enemies. I cannot tell you what you want to know because you ain’t an Autobot and I don’t know you. But Prowl _is_ an Autobot, and we take care of our own as best we can. I want to take care of Prowl but while I don’t know anything about him I can’t help him. He is the lone survivor of an ambush that wiped out his entire unit – and I need to know why.”

Smokescreen’s warning glare softened. It made sense. Honestly he wanted to know himself. But old loyalties died hard and training was a glitch. “Maybe they just missed him. Maybe he had a lucky break.” It sounded weak to Smokescreen’s own audials, but the alternative was…his vents stalled. “Was he _found_ alive?” He gripped the mug. Primus. What if the cons knew? What if they had somehow learned of his talents? His potential? Was that why? He shuttered his optics as pieces began to fall into place.

“No Smokescreen,” Jazz said softly, “he wasn’t found. He was rescued.”

Smokescreen released a shuddering vent and rested his helm to the side, doorwings sagging. _So they had to know. Family first._

Having seen his brother in so much pain in the medbay – seeing Bluestreak’s reaction to him – it had been enough to rip his spark in two. He had been furious with the Autobots. Furious that they could send a mech with Prowl’s skills to be wasted in some pitiful hole that one never heard of. But, of course, if that datapad held the only information on it that the Autobots had about his brother – could he really blame them for not knowing? He should blame Passad because it was their doing. Yet – how had the Decepticons known of Prowl’s talents? How had they known he was designed as a weapon? Did that compromise the rest of the pod?

Bluestreak’s laughter flitted over to him. He had to protect his ward. He had to protect what was left of his pod.

Smokescreen nodded and Jazz lessoned the pressure on his hands, but didn’t let go. The warmth from his hands seemed to ground Smokescreen. “This goes against everything I’ve been taught, but being Bluestreak’s guardian has taught me things like family first.”

Jazz traced his fingers over his knuckles, but remained silent.

 _I can’t believe I’m entrusting my family to this mech._ But he had no choice. He had no resources left, and maybe, just maybe, he could persuade the Autobots to accept Bluestreak as Prowl’s creation and allow the youngling to live on base. “Is this room secure?”

Jazz tilted his helm, and then nodded. “The room is secure. Sound-proofed and locks engaged. Red Alert has switched off life video feed, but what goes on in here will be recorded.”

Smokescreen wasn’t sure how he felt about that – relieved that someone was monitoring what was happening in the room and fear that someone would find the recording. He didn’t mind dying – but he was worried about Bluestreak.

“Just make sure that recording doesn’t get out, ok?” Smokescreen drew a deep vent, held it, and blew it out slowly.

Passad had been disbanded two vorns ago – right after Prowl had been contracted to the Autobots. Smokescreen had been released from duty to watch Prowl’s youngling, Prowl having been considered the ‘superior weapon’. The other two…he had no idea where they were. Yet simply because they had been released from duties and Passad disbanded didn’t meant they wanted it bandied about like a ball, and they were willing to go to extreme measures to keep that information locked and hidden away. So the agents were allowed to live as long as they understood the principle that Passad did not exist, had never existed, and that any mech who thought differently ended up dead. Smokescreen wouldn’t put it beyond Passad that they had made their weapons sleeper agents. But they still had their own will.

And family came first.

 “Prowl and I both belonged to the same program known as Passad.”

“Passad.” Jazz’s visor dimmed and he nodded, lips pursing. “I know about it. Praxian XOps that was disbanded two vorns ago due to irregularities and unethical behaviour on the part of minors.”

Smokescreen watched him, impressed that he knew that much about the secret Praxian military agency. “Yeah, well, unethical behaviour is putting it light, but it made us who we are.”

“Weapons.” Jazz supplied, his visor lighting up and his field buzzed. “I won’t ask your role and you are under no obligation to tell me as long as you remain neutral or allied, but I need to know Prowl’s role in this.”

“He was probably their greatest achievement, although I am biased.” Smokescreen shrugged a doorwing in the hopes that the small tremors would stop. He hated thinking back to those vorns. “We were from the same hatchling group – there were four in our pod that survived. Barricade, Sideburn, myself and Prowl. Only the strongest survive. Prowl’s speciality was tactics. He was equipped with a modified battle computer. He has the capacity to calculate the trajectories, speed, mass and everything there is to know of a thousand incoming missiles simultaneously while issuing orders on how to retaliate or advance. You could say he’s got like two processors each working independently. He’s incredible, he’s a genius, he’s….Prowl.”

He tugged his hands free and folded his arms protectively around his midsection. The room was quiet except for the playing youngsters.

“How did the Decepticons find out?” Smokescreen asked, optics dim.

“That’s what I’m gonna find out.” Jazz replied tersely. “And I’m also gonna find out why this information was hidden from us in the first place.”

“Don’t.” Smokescreen shook his helm. “If you pursue why it was hidden, then they will trace it back to where you got the information which just so happens to be me. And I’ve got a youngling. I don’t give a f…uh…fig what happens to me, but what happens to that little mech really concerns me.”

Jazz glanced over to Bluestreak. “Bluestreak is his creation, that places him under Autobot protection.”

“Yeah, that places him under Autobot protection, but what about his guardian? It’s not like I’m gonna leave him here. Especially not if Prowl’s going back to the field.” Smokescreen replied calmly. He could see what Jazz was thinking, could read it in his profile. Now he simply needed to wait for Jazz to ask. He wouldn’t volunteer it on his own.

Jazz smirked, shaking his helm. “Prowl’s not fit at present to watch his youngling, and if what you told me pans out then chances of him going back to the field aren’t high. Like you mentioned, skills like that are valuable.” He narrowed his optics at Smokescreen. “I don’t like wasting skills. Especially good ones.”

The statement hung in the air between them.

Smokescreen knew Jazz wanted him to ask what would happen to him, but no way in the Pit was he suggesting he become an Autobot. They could invite him. That way he could say his loyalties weren’t tested. “I’m not leaving Bluestreak in the company of strangers.”

“Then don’t be a stranger.”

“I’m not sure whether or not factions hang out with neutrals.”

“Could always be a first.”

“Oh for Pit’s sake.” Devcon threw his helm back, shaking it. “Since Jazz is taking his time about it, let’s just get to the point. Smokescreen, you have skills and talents that Jazz likes. Jazz, just ask him to enlist. Is that so hard?”

“Enlist? As in become an Autobot? And then you’ll send me to become canon fodder?” Smokescreen retorted as he leaned towards Devcon. To the mech’s credit he didn’t lean back, but instead leaned forward until they were nearly touching.

His polished scent of soft oceanic breeze tickled Smokescreen’s olfactory. “You would be required to stay at this base until your training is done, being a psychiatrist and psychologist, I’m sure Ratchet and Rung would be thrilled.”

“And your talents as ex-Passad would be welcomed in my division as well.”

Smokescreen broke optic contact to look at Jazz. “Your division?”

“That’s right mech, my division.” Jazz stood gracefully and Smokescreen watched his every move. “Ratchet told me visiting times are open. He won’t allow you to stay long, so I suggest you go.”

Smokescreen stood up and called Bluestreak to him. “Let’s go see Prowl.” The little mechling trilled and wagged his doorwings, bouncing up and down in excitement.

“Smokescreen.”

He turned to Jazz as he hoisted Bluestreak to his hip.

“I’d like to give you more time to consider, but I got to know if your interested in our offer before tomorrow evening. Either or,” he glanced at Bluestreak, chirping and whistling at the mechling, “Bluestreak will be staying with Prowl.”

His stern gaze turned to Devcon. “Smokescreen’s your watch.”

 

* * *

 

Smokescreen entered the dim interior of the medical ward, the pungent smell of anaesthetics mixed with disinfectants stung his olfactory, bringing back long forgotten memories. He knew his way around medical bays, knew the ins and outs. He had gotten enough experience during his rotations as a psychiatrist and a field medic to know that he didn’t like hospitals very much.

They were places of death as much as places of healing – but what got him was the silence. A silence only disturbed by bleeping of machines as they faithfully monitored their patients or by the ragged screams of the injured.

The ward thankfully only had a few occupants, all of which ignored him as they waited for their own comrades or friends to drop by. Smokescreen wove his way into the Intensive Care Unit, ignoring Devcon’s silent presence following them.

Bluestreak trilled and started struggling to be put down. “Shhh, Blue. We’re almost there.” Smokescreen held him a little tighter, which earned him a hard punch to the chest. “Blue,” the warned whisper went unheeded as he leaned with outstretched arms towards the berth.

This is what broke Smokescreen’s spark. Seeing the desperation to be close to his unresponsive and very unconscious carrier. “Alright, but remember to be gentle and not to touch any tubes or wires or patches.”

The medic had preferred that Bluestreak not be here at all, but after the whole fiasco that had erupted they didn’t really have a choice but to let the sparkling be with Prowl. He just needed to be supervised.

Smokescreen placed him on the berth next to Prowl’s legs, the only areas of his lithe frame that wasn’t patched, scratched, burned or dented. Bluestreak curled up against one of his carrier’s legs, purring as he did so.

Smokescreen rubbed the nape of Bluestreak’s neck, eliciting more purrs as the sparkling settled down. He turned his attention back to Prowl. Even under the influence of strong sedatives the pain was etched into his face. Smokescreen beat down the anger that seethed. He had learned to control the beast. He would not let it rule him. He balled his fist, then gently relaxed it and ran his knuckle over an unburnt part of Prowl’s cheek. He glanced behind Prowl, tracing the lacerations on his wings. The lacerations were deep and had obviously been made with the idea to keep him from flying – or escaping for that matter.

It must have been excruciating. That Prowl hadn’t died from the sheer pain caused by it only attested to his inner strength.

A strength that had carried him through his youngling vorns to become an elite agent.

And yet, here he lay, battered and beaten with his sparkling clutching at his knees.

Prowl wasn’t made for the field – his armour was too thin, he was too light, too delicate. He was made to be in tactics. He was made to rule mechs and give orders. Smokescreen had been made for the field. Barricade and Sideburn too. They were larger, had stronger armour, more strength not only in their frames but in their wings. They were built to fight.

He was built to fight. He sighed as he thought back to Jazz’s offer.

He glanced at Bluestreak. The mechling needed his creator. As much as Smokescreen loved him, he was Prowl’s creation. But he could stay – he could stay and do what he was created to do.

He wasn’t a psychologist or a psychiatrist – he was a profiler.

He could stay and become Jazz’s profiler.

 

* * *

 

 So this little piece sprang to life after watching Dark of the Moon – and I’m quite sad that it slunk back into the pool. The Praxian doorwings are based on Laserbeak’s wings, which I find a lot more intriguing than the mere flat, one-panel doorwings. I’ve also burrowed the idea of Praxians being flight capable, albeit only for short distances, from a very good writer on FF.net.

I’ll probably refer to this 'verse as the Hatchlings AU.

 


	2. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written as part of a Prowl’s Origin story that just never got off the ground. The background here is that Prowl was designed as a tactical weapon by Shockwave. Autobot Intelligence was informed of the new ‘super weapon’ and Jazz was sent to disable it. When he realized the weapon was a mech, he brought Prowl back to Iacon. At this scene – Prowl was still under observation and technically a POW although he wasn’t a decepticon. Jazz and Red are still suspicious, OP, though, had other more useful ideas for Prowl.
> 
> Wrote this while listening to Eugen Doga's Gramafon. I highly recommend this waltz. :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DILaMQ867A

The officer’s ball was something Jazz absolutely loathed, and no matter how he had wiggled and connived and begged not to, he had still been obligated to go.

Now, as he stood in the high-ceiling, ornate ballroom holding a flute of champagne, he was counting the breems until he could leave. Even the soft music played by the talented orchestra wasn’t enough to bind him. He was a mech of action – not of politics. And there was too much politics floating around on the dancefloor to his liking.

“You know, I had it on good authority that you tend to enjoy parties.”

Jazz glanced at Dino, the noble’s crimson armour gleaming and reflecting the million lights decorating the giant room. He drew a deep vent, standing erect as he surveyed the hundreds of mecha talking and dancing and for all intents having a good time.

“This ain’t a party mech. This is ‘my ride’s bigger than yours’ game of politics.” He took a sip of his golden-hued champagne.

“Yes, it is that also, but at least the setting is nice.” Dino waved a hand dismissively over the crowds. “And it is good for the Prime to be seen among the people. Boosts their confidence.”

“Yeah, but don’t think this is his cup of energon either.” He glanced towards the Prime and froze.

 _What in the Pit?!_ Jazz stared at the gleaming mech standing close to Optimus Prime. The proud doorwings, the ruby-red chevron, the soft curves and sharp edges…He reset his visor. “Would you excuse me a moment?” He asked as he placed his glass on a tray and without waiting for a reply wove his way towards the duo talking with a bunch of senators he didn’t care a frag about.

He came to a stop next to the gleaming Praxian, nodding at the senators and at Prime. He cast a glance at Ironhide, the old bodyguard cocked an optic ridge at him. He smiled brightly at the mech even as he inched towards the Praxian. “Prowl,” He said tightly, making sure the others couldn’t hear. “What are you doing here?”

In a manner Jazz was becoming to associate with the unflappable mech, Prowl simply inclined his helm towards him and in a soft but firm voice replied, “The Prime invited me. I accepted.”

And just like that he went back to ignoring Jazz.

 Jazz barely kept his armour from fluffing and his hands from wringing Prowl’s – or for that matter Optimus’ – neck. At that moment the band struck up a waltz and Jazz didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed the Praxian’s hand and with a not-so-apologetic look shot at the group, announced, “I’ve reserved this dance with Prowl, please excuse us.”

He pulled Prowl away and onto the dancefloor, overlooking the rigidness of Prowl’s frame. He was well aware that if Prowl wanted to, he could deck him right then and there. Thankfully, the mech relaxed slightly in his arms and let him lead.

Good mech.

“I assume there is something you wish to discuss in private?” Prowl asked as they swirled around the dancefloor to the beat of the music.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I’d like to know what the frag you’re doing off the base?” Jazz pulled him closer, glancing around them. There were hundreds of mechs that attended these parties – and even though he knew Prime was covered, that didn’t mean the others were. He definitely knew Prowl didn’t have a security detail with him.

A slight crease marred the otherwise smooth brow. “I have already informed you. The Prime – ”

“Yeah, I know. Invited you and you accepted. You shouldn’t have.” Jazz finished for him as he glared at the calm mech.

A single optic ridge rose just enough to be noticeable. “I was not aware that I could decline the Prime.”

“Until I clear ya, you can.” Jazz spat. “Do you know how dangerous this is? You’re a weapon that Megatron wants, and you come out here without any protection whatsoever. Do you even realise the dangers?”

“I have calculated the odds. As long as I remain close to the Prime, I am in no immediate danger.”

They made a turn and Jazz used the opportunity to pull him close. “There’s always danger Prowl.” He whispered next to the mech’s audial. “Even Prime knows that and I’m surprised he invited you – especially since he didn’t inform me about it.”

“I do not believe the Prime requires your permission.” Prowl stated flatly as he allowed himself to be twirled around.

Jazz’s visor flashed, but he bridled the venomous retort that sprang to his willing lips. “No, he doesn’t, but in your case he does.”

Jazz maneuvered them between two other couples, the solo oboe weaving through the air as they turned.

Prowl cast his unreadable optics at Jazz. “You are upset.”

 _No slag._ Jazz bit the inside of his cheek and twirled Prowl a bit harder than proper, almost causing the graceful mech to stumble. He quickly caught Prowl and readjust his hold. “Sorry.” He drew a deep vent, “I am upset. I went through the Pit to get you out of danger and just like that the Prime comes and places you smack-bang in the middle of it.” He let his optics rove over the mechs and femmes present – over the balconies, out the doors that led to the gardens. There were simply too many mechs to keep count of.

“I apologise. I should have informed you.” Prowl answered as the music rolled into the final movement. They completed the final movement without a word.

Jazz bowed as the waltz came to an end, but swiftly grabbed Prowl’s hand again, tucking it into his arm. “You don’t leave my side.”

“You will cause gossip.”

“Then let them gossip. They will anyway, but next to me I know you’re safe.”

Prowl allowed the tiniest of smiles to grace his lips. “I was unaware of your level of paranoia. Surely Red Alert has vetted all the guests and there are numerous agents staged throughout the ball. Not to mention the formidable hulk of Ironhide looming at anyone who dares come too close to the Prime.”

Jazz inclined his helm, a stiff smile plastered on his lips. “Usually I’m not paranoid because I come prepared. Seeing you here, that was an unwelcome surprise.”

“I am inclined to be insulted.” The smile dropped from Prowl’s lips to be replaced by a stern expression. “I will remind you that I am not altogether helpless.”

Jazz realized his mistake and drew in a deep calming vent. He glanced once more around the room. Yeah, they may have checked everything, but they could always miss something. “I know you ain’t helpless, but I don’t want to put you in unnecessary dangers. That’s why I don’t understand why the Prime would bring you.”

Prowl skewed his helm, his soft doorwings flicking back. “He is introducing me to the senators as his new secretary.”

Jazz stopped moving and pulled Prowl flush against him, grabbing the mech’s arms. “Run that by me again.” He stared into the serene face, wondering if the champagne had caused the fuzziness he suddenly felt in his helm.

“I am the Prime’s new secretary.” Prowl stated calmly, “I was also unaware that he had to run that by you.”

For a moment Jazz saw red and his grip tightened. He was going to kill the prime. He was going to slagging _kill_ him.

With pained and jerky movements, Jazz released Prowl. He tucked the mech’s hand back into his arm and moved towards the Prime’s group. “Well then, Mr Secretary, let’s get you back to the group so I can drown myself in engex.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I have been fighting against doing something like this, but I feel so bad every time I see the innocent folder sitting oh so lonely on my screen. These are the places where I experiment and practice writing. Sometimes they make sense sometimes they don't, sometimes they morph into stories (thank you Twins) and sometimes they remain a simple slice-of-life. But either or, I'm giving them to you to read.
> 
> On a side note, I always try to use original transformer characters to flesh out instead of OCs (unless there *really* isn't someone available).


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